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Home: The Toast

Here is friend of the Toast and literary person Rachel Fershleiser holding an early copy of Texts From Jane Eyre, the book that I have written with these two hands. Ignore the John Grisham poster in the background; John Grisham is a distraction. John Grisham, like all men, is the past. I and my kind are the future. We will ascend on the backs of male humorists and scryers and wordsmiths and culture critics into some kind of super-heaven, like Coin Heaven in Super Mario.

Should you care to pre-order it (the book comes out in November), you may do so here. Should you care to briefly look at the description and decide the book is not for you, you may also do that. “I do not need another bathroom book making jokes about telephones,” you may decide, and that decision is right for you. “I can read Buzzfeed lists for that.” (This is also an appropriate place to discuss how terrific Rachel’s outfit is, and how well it goes with the cover of my book.)

There are a great many books in the world, and I cannot be expected to write a book that satisfies one and all. I am merely one woman with hair as beautiful and as red as Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman’s, and I wish you joy on your chosen path.

In my seventh grade yearbook, Mark Iverson once wrote:

I’m smarter than you
I’m a better speller than you
I can read faster than you

Mark, those were lies and you knew them to be lies in your heart when you wrote them. Clearly you cannot read faster than me, or else you would have written this book first. You also made fun of my Nickelodeon-brand shoes that had the little puddles of Gak on the toe because they were “boy shoes.” They were not boy shoes. You’re boy shoes.

I have held onto my grudge for these thirteen years and I will never forgive you for it. Consider this my rebuttal. Your move, sir.

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